He made a half threatening movement with his staff, but old Tim slid off his perch good-naturedly and sought the ground instead, no more chairs being available.
Judge Colver thereupon essayed, in his longwinded, heavy way, to impart to the new arrival the story they had just heard. Uncle Billy listened with becoming patience for one of his excitable temperament.
"Well, 'pon my soul!" he ejaculated, when the recital was done. "Things happen nowadays as queer as Jonah an' the whale! Arthur--an' who'd 'a' thought?--two thousand dollars! He's a stiff old codger, but nobody c'n say anything ag'in 'im! He's got a right to live by hisself an' not neighbour any."
"Is Dink up yit?" asked a very sober looking, lank individual, who up to this moment had remained silent. He was the jailer. The question, simple as it was, proved an unlucky one, for the ire of Uncle Billy arose at once. He began to thump the earth with his staff and comb his whiskers with his fingers.
"Ain't I late this mornin'?" he demanded, instead of making direct reply to the question. "Oughtn't I 'a' been here a half-n-hour ago?"
He glared from one to the other as though daring them to refute it. Each person present maintained a discreet silence, though one or two nodded acquiescence.
"Late! Late to town!" he stormed. "And what for? That pesky Lizy Ann Scribbens had the owdacity to come to my _front_ door this very mornin'--a beggin'. My _front_ door! An' her just been cooped up with that diseased rat of a husban', Dink, an' small-pox microbes a-crawlin' all over her! Didn't I pack her off? I swear, gentlemen, I got my shotgun before she would leave! Paupers oughter live in the poorhouse an' not purten' to be decent. Dink won't admit he's a pauper, but he lives by stealin', what's worse. That's why I'm late, an' if I don't ketch it I don't know why!"
"I should think, Mr. Hoonover, that you should apprehend no danger of contagion, as you had no personal contact with your caller. Of course that is a layman's view only, but I would not give it another thought."
A pistol shot, startlingly near and distinct, punctuated the carefully uttered speech of Colonel Whitley. The group leaped up as one man--save the one who had last spoken. Colonel Whitley was in a comfortable position, and his paper was only half read. The shot sounded from Main street, and Judge Colver, as fearless as he was big, started in a lumbering trot across the yard to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. But almost immediately three men appeared around the corner of the courthouse. One was a deputy sheriff, another was a blacksmith, and between them, struggling violently to free himself, was a low, poorly dressed, unkempt person.